tion, as we should all do, what strain of human imperfection it was that clouded this celebrated life; why he was not more successful in the minor matters of every day; why he did not see more clearly what others thought to be the right; why there was one thread of logic that he did not find and follow — and so we should all cease to question. To-day I know no greater pleasure than to read his letters and his speeches.
Speaking of portraits of Mr. Webster, the earliest one, by Chester Harding (that man of genius who used to make Gilbert Stuart jealous, as his young fame in 1823 made the older man ask, "How rages the Harding fever?"), is, I think, in the Boston Athenæum. They are all good. I sat to Harding in my girlhood. He used to talk to me of Webster as of a man whom he really worshipped. He had a thorough comprehension of his subject, for he was a great man himself. He enjoyed for many years an enviable intimacy with Mr. Webster and his family, and he said, "The more unrestrained our intercourse grew the greater man he seemed to be." He was fond of telling of his taking a bottle of "mountain-dew" to Mr. Webster. Leaving the bottle on the hall table, he went in to the parlor and said, "I have left a Scotch gentleman of my acquaintance outside; may I bring him in?" On receiving a ready assent he produced the bottle (he had previously told Mr. Webster that this beverage must be taken with hot water and sugar).
"Oh," said Mr. Webster, receiving the bottle with gravity, "is this the gentleman who always bathes in hot water?"
Chester Harding was born in 1792, in Worth Conway, New Hampshire; he died in Boston in 1866, having painted nearly every one of note in that city. His fame grew to be a national one, and his last portrait was that
